


How to Handle a Competitive Streak

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Series: Secretive 'verse [6]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Ending, F/M, Happy Ending, Humor, Incest, M/M, Post-Series, Sibling Incest, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:57:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She’s asking you if you’re being serious about <i>saying out loud</i> this kind of thing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Handle a Competitive Streak

“I’m bigger.”

The words blurt out of Lincoln’s mouth before he can think about what he’s saying – it happens often enough – and causes Sara to throw her head back in disbelief.

“Seriously?” she breathes out.

“Yeah. You should know.”

“She’s not asking you if you’re seriously bigger,” Michael butts in, “she’s asking you if you’re being serious about _saying out loud_ this kind of thing.”

\- - - - -

Building up a few shelves in the scuba dive shop had apparently awakened Lincoln’s long slumbering competitive streak, and he brought Michael down with him. He’d been swearing for days that he would do it “tomorrow”; but every morning when Sara opened the dive shop before going to the clinic, no shelves. Hence Michael eventually taking things – hammer and saw, nails and boards – in his structural engineer’s hands and building up the damn shelves. Lincoln was not as happy as someone who got away from a chore should have been.

Randomly, it continued with chili peppers. Sara stopped after the second one, tongue and throat burning, cheeks brighter than after the first really bad sunburn she got when they settled here. Michael, though, was not as wise and neither was Lincoln. Lincoln won this one. If you consider that eating nothing but pasta and Pepcid for two days is ‘winning’, of course.

Lasting. Oh, yes, sadly, _this_ kind of lasting. At first, Sara thought that maybe that absurd thing the brothers had going on was becoming... relevant to her interests. After half an afternoon on her back – and successively on her side, hands and knees, stomach, and back on her back – she stood corrected. Soreness and a hint of chaffing, no matter how foresighted they’d been, led to three days of fast of another kind. For all of them.

‘Best cook’ was meant to make up to her, and was quite nice. A bit too much stuffing in the end, and she collapsed and dozed in the sofa while they cleaned up everything, but nice.

She won’t linger on push-ups – although that one offered an enticing sight – baseball trivia contest, Spanish contest – which she would totally have won if she had cared to play, by the way – list of previous girlfriends – “You _really_ want to go there, Michael?” – and crazy plans to help your brother into college or out of jail.

Massage was not bad; she would say it was a tie. Lincoln was so intent and serious about it, working the knots in her shoulders and back and making her writhe in pure pleasure. She means ‘pure’ in both senses of the word here – deep pleasure, and honest, not-saucy pleasure. Michael, though, cheated; while his left hand did massage her neck, the right one kind of slipped much lower and found out that soreness and chaffing were gone. She writhed some more.

It’s when they started to make plans about sand castles, or maybe even sand fortresses, for the next evening – there was no way Lincoln would win this one, and then she would hear about it _forever_ from both men – that she thought necessary to remind them that “You don’t need to win the girl, guys.” She looked at Michael’s hand lazily stroking Lincoln’s lower stomach and added, “Or the boy. Stop showing off, okay?”

\- - - - -

And it looked as though they had indeed stopped, up until the moment where Michael let slip a seemingly innocent comment about last night and Lincoln replied with the size-gloating remark.

“I’m still bigger, Mikey” Lincoln answers after Michael’s clarification of Sara’s question. “Some of the women I slept with couldn’t take it all the way in without cringing.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “So classy, Lincoln.”

Sara sits bare foot and legs crossed beneath her on the large couch, chin resting on her closed fist and eyes squinting with amusement.

“What’s the point?” she asks, almost sincerely curious.

“Huh?” Lincoln stares at her.

“What is the point? It’s supposed to feel good for both partners. So what’s the point of making them cringe?”

“The point is that I’m bigger.” Lincoln smirks, hand dipping in search of her ankle and circling it delicately. “You’ve never complained or cringed.”

Oooh, she has... Not complained, but cringed. But now’s not the time to point this out because his hand is moving up, and Sara throws her head back for reasons that have nothing to do with disbelief anymore. From the corner of her eye, she can see Michael plastering himself against Linc’s side. They exchange a brotherly – except for the part where... whatever – complicit look, and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, they’re done with the sibling rivalry.

Or not.

“So,” she says with a lazy smile. “Who’s thicker?”

-End-


End file.
